


Fame

by finlyfoe



Series: Fame & Fortune [1]
Category: Homeland
Genre: Coping, Eventual Relationships, F/M, M/M, New Horizons, Other, Press and Tabloids, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-07-28 21:44:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7657813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finlyfoe/pseuds/finlyfoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New: Ch.6 "Putting up" - end of story</p><p>After Berlin: Peter Quinn recovering. Until the press finds out the guy we all saw die is alive...<br/>Post s.5 - possible bridge to s.6</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everlasting 15 minutes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bwg71](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bwg71).



> mostly short scenes & dialogue
> 
> a fill to prompt # 41 of the "prompt bazaar":  
> "I'd actually really be interested in how Quinn handles being recognised (or 'famous') - he's so private and reserved and self-contained"

  1. **Rumor**



Friday night at a trendy club in Washington. Two girl-friends, two drinks, some gossiping.

"... right there on the beach, it must have been him,  different haircut and all but he gave her that look and if Harold hadn’t called that very instant…”

“Prince doing the Elvis? I don’t know… - But I _know_ who's alive though we’ve all seen him die… My sister works at Walter Reed’s, she's been treating him.... Have a guess!“

“No idea… The Houston girl??! Seymour whatshisname?!”

“In a military hospital, come on…!  The guy from the video. The one the terrorists killed with gas. That was sick…. so sick…

“ _That_ guy?! The one with the spitting and vomiting and -“

“all those other body fluids, yeah, the very one.”

“No!”

“Yes! Alive and kicking, my sister says.”

“Gawds, that’s worse than the moonlanding stunt…”

“Toyah, don’t start on that AGAIN! … they didn’t make it up to make them terrorists seem bad…. It was all real, the clip gone viral. And those guys _were_ bad. It’s … he survived. Somehow. …. Hardly more than a vegetable at first, my sister says...”

“Didn’t you just say “alive and kicking”?”

 

 

**2\. Trojan Horse**

A shrink. Again.  
Peter Quinn stares at the lady, about his age but giving him this _motherly_ look as if she was really concerned, as if this wasn’t her job but her - vocation. Her hair is in a spinsterlike knot though her earrings are trendy, he can spot a tattoo under her sleeve, he has no idea whether it is a letter or something pictorial. She wears a hospital frock.

“Shall we sit and chat, Peter? I brought you a coffee.” She puts down a papermug in front of him. “Or would you prefer some tea?” Her voice sounds like candy cotton, too sweet and too light. She opens her huge handbag and takes out a box of donuts. A wave of nausea floods his stomach.

He just came back from manual therapy. He was looking forward to collapsing on the bed, taking two painkillers and falling asleep. Instead he is forced to sit upright on a chair and face a shrink. He has one hour before the next therapy session and he needs a rest. And he’s not too fond of shrinks. Never has been. He'll keep his guard.  
On the other hand, she’s only doing her job. And she’s trying. Bringing coffee and stuff.

“How do you feel, Peter? You still look pale and thin.”

“Oh I am grand, just grand.”

She gives him an empathetic smile. “I know this isn’t easy but…”

“Thing is, nobody told me you were coming, and I hate surprises….”

“I understand. I am sorry to bother you, Peter. We take it easy, how does that sound? So tell me, how are you today?”

 “Grand. As already stated.”

She sighs. A patient motherly sigh. “OK. Right from the beginning. How long have you been  here?”

“72 days here at Walter Reed’s, 153 at Ramstein, makes 226 since the gassing. Why do you folks keep on asking, I know who I am and where I am, I know the date, the name of the president, I am not demented or anything.”

“That’s good to hear. How are you coping?”

“OK I guess. For the details check my file.”

“I’d like to hear it in your own words. How’s your prognosis?”

“Better than expected. I am alive.”

“What about chronic inflictions?”

“Phases of headaches. Drowsiness. Blurred vision. Cramps. Impeded breathing.”

“On a scale from 1 to 10, 1 hardly any restrictions, 10 a total restricted life?”

“A seven?”

“What about your sex life? “

Oh wouldn’t she love to read his mind right now. Which triggers his stoneface.  “What about it?”

“How do you get along? Are there major - restrictions? How did it change -“

“It’s not a priority right now.”

“Does your partner agree on this?”

He crosses his arms, well aware it is a “I-shut-you-out”-gesture. “A partner is not a priority right now.”

She takes it in, nods.  “I see. Are glad you are alive?”

He rolls his eyes.  “I am not thinking about doing myself in if that’s what you want to ask, do I have to repeat it twice a week, do you guys never talk or exchange notes or anything?”

“That’s good”, she says, “life is a gift, you were very lucky… so were your loved ones. How are _they_ coping by the way…? ”

His eyes stay alert.  “You’d have to ask that the loved ones I guess.”

She smiles and takes out a little black book. “That’s an excellent idea. So who should I ask?”

He flashes a smile. “You never read that file, did you?”

She smiles back and gets up. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Peter.”

Before he can react, she gives him a hug.  She notices how he stiffens at the unexpected touch. “I am sure there will be a time when you need somebody... I’ll be around. Oh and do you mind if I take a photo?”

“Course I do. Bad hair-day I am afraid.”

She hesitates, then smiles that motherly smile again, pats his back and leaves.

Against better judgement Peter grabs one of the donuts.

 

 

**3\. Vultures**

Five minutes before Carrie and Frannie are off to visit Quinn at Walter Reed’s, Carrie gets a voicemail.

 “Hey Carrie, it’s Quinn. Sorry about the short term notice… don’t bring Frannie.”

She is annoyed.  
They have planned this for weeks - Quinn was eager to see Frannie so Carrie organized to bring her all the way from New York City.  On his birthday. Otherwise he’d probably ignore it, but they won’t let him. They got him a tricky jigsaw puzzle, made blueberry-muffins, got candles and crackers and Frannie drew a picture of Quinn the giant all smiley, a bird on his head.  
Who does he think he is - calling it off last minute?! Not even bothering to pick up his phone and tell her but sending a frigging voice-mail?! A few weeks back to consciousness and already starting to be a nuisance again. Before she can dial his number and give him a proper tell-off, she receives another voice-mail.

“On second thoughts… Better stay away yourself.” He sounds up-tight.

She calls him right away.

“Yeah” he goes before the first ringing tone, obviously expecting her call.

“Quinn, what’s that bullshit? What’s up?”

“We’re under siege.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Newscrowds at the entrance. OB-vans, journalists, curious by-standers. The usual.”

“Ah, another minister of defence in for surgery or the Bibis of the world commemorating your birthday?”…”

“Did you have a clown for breakfast?”

 “So why are they over there?”

“Lazarus laughing.”

“Oh shit.”

“Tell me.”

“A leak?”

“Looks like it.”

“Quinn - you’re not setting this up to keep us away? In order to indulge in another lonely miserable birthday?”

“Turn on your TV. CNN.”

She does. Breaking news running through on the bottom of the page - Gas victim alive? … - Shots of a huge news crowd outside Walter Reed’s.

“Holy shit Quinn... Adal has to do something about it…”

“Like what? Undoing what’s been done?” If this wasn’t Quinn she’d say it’s a voice on the verge of tears.

“I’ll come down.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“You don’t wanna be caught on camera, right? It’s a fucking nightmare… Stay the fuck away.”

 

 

**4\. PR**

An absent-minded Peter Quinn, sitting on the bed, head in hands, staring at the wall, reluctantly takes Dar Adal’s call.

“Happy birthday Peter…”

“Fuck my birthday, what about these fuckers down there?”

“Yes, an unpleasant situation, I am aware.... I am at the cafeteria right now, come down so I can give you intel on our strategy. I brought donuts..”

“I fucking hate donuts! Every fucking time you bring fucking donuts! You even tell your fucking shrink to bring fucking donuts!”

“My shrink? Are you delirious?”

“Woman, fortyish, tattoo… Showed up yesterday.”

“A shrink? I didn’t send a shrink. Let alone a woman. “

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Adal has a little theory on Peter and women but doesn’t intend to go into any details, so he just repeats: “I didn’t send you a shrink.”

“Fuck.”

Silence.

_Fuck Fuck Fuck._

“Peter, would you move your ass right NOW?”

\----

The cafeteria is empty. With the exception of Dar Adal and Peter Quinn, seated at a large table, facing each other. A box of donuts between them.

“We have to turn it around. We need you on the podium.” Adal takes another bite of a pink donut-

“No way, I already did my time on camera… ”

“If we don’t provide you, rumors will grow out of proportion.”

“If I sit there, it’s my picture all over the news again. The public memory renewed. They’ll recognize me everywhere. Fucking everywhere. I am not joining that board. I am not. You can’t fucking force me.”

Adal sighs.  “Peter, which is worse - facts or rumors? - You’ll sit there, you’ll answer two or three questions we’ll arrange beforehand, no surprises, no nothing.”

“I agree on no nothing.”

 “Don’t make me order it.”

 “Why don’t you shoot me here and now?”

“Peter, don’t dramatize.- Another suggestion. An alternative. No cameras. A few handpicked newspaper journalists get access. The New York Times, the Washington Post, the Guardian, Le Monde…”

“Access to -?”

“Don’t play daft. You of course.”

“You are seriously suggesting a fucking home-story?

“You don’t even have a home, Peter…  It’s about staying in control. They’ll reveal things we let them reveal.”

“As if that ever worked…  Why can’t Peter Quinn stay dead? You _promised_ I would get a new I.D. to avoid this- harassment.”

“It is too late for that. Somebody has talked, sold evidence, bragged in a club, whatever… If we keep up, it will damage our credibility. I can't allow it.”

“And it won’t harm your credibility to bring back a dead solder? Confirmed dead? What is this, fucking Game of Thrones?”

“Calm down. We have brought in a professional to help us.”

Adal picks up his phone, dials a number, waits a few seconds and the door opens as if by magic. A man in his late twenties, rosy cheeks, eager face, shining eyes and receding hairline, storms in.

“Peter, this is Mark Tryson, our PR advisor on this.”

Mark stumbles forward, hand outstretched.

“It’s a pleasure Peter and an honor, I admire your work and your dedication and I will do my utmost to find the very best solution for this awkward situation.”

Quinn sighs and lets his head sink down on the table. Great, so he now has his very own PR advisor…

 

Half an hour and many elaborate sentences later Quinn is even more concerned. He tries a Hail Mary: “What if anybody digs into my background?“

“Don’t worry”, Adal purrs, “we already made a stress test. Probability is they won’t find … ugly stuff.”

“Probability is?! You need a fucking guarantee! What about the clusterfuck with Javadi’s women… that was in the neighbourhood, there’s a photo, a signed confession! “

Adal seems to lose his patience.  “Stop shouting at me, Peter. You will do whatever we decide is best. If Mark and I say you are to talk with the press, you will.”

“Sir - Peter”, Mark throws in, a loyal believer in appeasement, “please… it is all a question of the viewpoint. This is not a disaster, it is a big opportunity. Peter, you could become an idol, we need those, don’t we. If we take the right steps, direct this carefully, it will be a success story. Peter Quinn will be - a brand. A deacon for the work the agency does. Self-sacrificing and courageous.”

This is the moment to jump at the guy and break his neck. Jaded Peter however turns to his old mentor, eyes very dark and serious. “I don’t have a switch, Adal. You told me to be invisible, you taught me how to disappear, it can’t be undone. It can’t be undone. If you force me to go public, things might not turn out the way you like it. If they are to get to know me… they might get to know more than you feel comfortable with…”

Adal has to suppress a sneer: His guy tries to threaten him…?! “Don’t be childish, Peter. … Just let them know the hero is safe. You did brave back there. Very brave.”

It takes him off balance. A compliment by Dar Adal… told for tactical reasons most likely, but still… Peter gives in with a sigh and pulls himself up to leave.

Adal decides to have checked on him every ten minutes tonight. Just in case his guy plans something stupid. Again.

 

 

**5\. Late Visitor**

Carrie knocks at Quinn’s door. No reply. She opens - he sits on his beds, leaning against the wall, a look of utter exhaustion on his face. God he has grown old over his last years - grey streaks in his hair, his body heartbreakingly boney and sinewy, veins sticking out. He opens his eyes and she half expects him to yell at her. But no-

“Hi Carrie” he says softly, “I didn’t expect you today.”

“I said I would come, didn’t I?!” She moves over and sits down next to him. “Happy birthday Quinn. They wouldn’t let me bring champagne so we can’t toast…”

“Yeah, I’ve become a teetotaler lately.” He tries to keep it light, he really tries.

“I brought you a 5000-parts-puzzle to do your combinatory talent and your famous patience justice.” She gives him a wink and hands him the puzzle.

“Yeah and not at all to improve my fine motor skills… Thanks Carrie. I appreciate it.” He puts it on the bedside table and just looks at her. So she smiles and hugs him.  “I also brought some muffins…” she whispers in his ear.

Instead of answering, he softly collapses on her shoulder.  
It feels like fucking Berlin again.

Which reminds her: They have to talk about that letter. Soon.

She reaches out for the call-button.

 

 

**6\. Pyrrhus**

This time, for a change, Quinn gets his way. He doesn’t sit on Adal's podium. There is a price to pay, there always is: He has suffered a relapse, that’s why he’s spared.  
“He puked all over the room”, nurse Gabriel, 6ft 2, Caribbean smile, informs Adal who comes by first thing in the morning.

Adal gives him a stern look. He wouldn’t put it past Peter to do this intentionally. He might have provoked the relapse. Left out some meds or took a higher dosage …

 “Did you watch him take his meds?”

“Sir, why are you asking?”

“We had an argument and he seemed willing to go great lengths to avoid today’s appointment.”

Gabriel gives him a dark look. “Sir, a relapse might well be provoked by a major emotional upheaval. He is working hard on getting better, he wouldn’t risk his health. Never.”

It’s a lie. Gabriel has noticed Quinn left out his night meds. It might have been unintentional though. And he’s no  informer.

 

 

**7\. Strange encounter**

“Jesus Quinn, I was worried… will you please stop this relapsing shit?”

“It’s you people bringing donuts and stuff. Trying to poison me”, he says, munching another one of the blueberry muffins she brought the day before.

They sit on his bed, a tabloid paper between them. So he made the headlines once again - today it’s “The lonely hero”.  The so-called shrink managed to take a picture of him, he didn’t even notice. It is slightly out of focus, which doesn’t help. He looks haggard and defeated but he is clearly recognizable.

“My, girls from all over the world will drown you in love-letters and proposals. Some guys too.”

“Great”, he goes, “I’ll accept one from North Korea and go AWOL.”

She grins. “That will make a marvelous book - a documentary - you could sell the rights to some major network.”

He sighs. “I’ve become so fucking slow. God, how could I miss she was a journalist! Shrinks never touch you, right.”

“You let her touch you?”

“I said I am slow. Inhibited. Can’t even fight off grabby women anymore.”

“This calls for retirement.”

“Right, not all my other little ailments. Fuck, how come she blindsided me…”

“In your current state you are easy prey, Quinn. Come on, get moving, we’ll go for a coffee downstairs.”

Gabriel has told her Quinn refuses to leave the room, seems virtually paralyzed. That’s why she tries to lure him out. He shakes his head. She insists until he finally gives in. The usual Carrie-Quinn-interaction.

Down at the cafeteria, Quinn plunges at a table in a corner, next to a huge potted plant. Carrie smiles, imaging him duck into that plant in case any enemy - journalist, fangirl, terrorist - shows up, and queues for the coffee.

A teenage boy comes in, pushing his mum in a wheelchair. Sees Quinn, takes a long look. Stops the wheelchair at a table in the opposite corner. Helps his mum get comfortable. Throws another glance at Quinn. Takes his cell-phone out and comes over.

“Hey man, can I take a selfie?” he goes and gets very close, cheek to cheek, before stunned and embarrased Peter can react. “You are my hero, you really are, will you go back and hunt those bastards down?”- The teenager doesn’t even wait for a reply, he grimaces at Peter and slouches back to his mum, then turns and gives Peter a victory sign.

“You’re alright?” Carrie wants to know on coming back. Quinn looks like a ghoul: Greenish face, sweat beads on his forehead.

“Carrie, can I ask you a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Like - a big favor?”

“Sure, I mean - it depends… I am not going to kill any anchorman for you…”

“I need a few days off, I need to think how to get out of this clusterfuck. That PR fucker goes on about Oprah and  home stories and career opportunities… Can you take me somewhere, somewhere private, just for a few days?”

His eyes are huge and desperate, and she gulps.

“Quinn I would, but- I don’t want to endanger you, you need the doctors, the therapies…”

“Just for a week-end, please?”

God he looks so needy, so desperate… A wave of love and pity washes over her. They _have_ to talk about that letter… not now though.

“OK”, she says, “I’ll try my best. What about I rent some hut on Virgina Beach?”

He gives her one of his rare spectacular smiles and a slip of paper: “Will you get those for me… for a safe escape?”

“I am relieved. Only half a shopping list for diy-explosives... Hydrogen peroxide... Colored contact-lenses..."

“It’s that or plastic surgery. Your choice.”

She starts grinning. “Wow, now let me weigh the options before I decide…”

“On second thoughts - forget it, I’ll ask Gabriel to do the shopping…”

 

 

 


	2. Treats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Carrie's help, Quinn plans to escape public pressure - and has to face some other unexpected issues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Change of plan, partly due to your encouraging and highly appreciated comments:  
> I couldn't resist to post this two short scenes today, contrary to my original intention to post "all" (whatever that "all" might be) in one big chunk...

**1\. Transmutation**

Peter Quinn stares at the ginger in front of him, sheer terror in his eyes.

“Strawberry blonde suits you”, Carrie jokes and runs her hand over Quinn’s hair, cropped short and dyed.

“No way”, he goes, “this won’t do. It has to be blonde, real blonde, like platinum blonde or white blonde or Jean Harlow blonde or whatever. Not - THAT. Put on another round of peroxide.”

“Quinn, listen - you DO look different. That’s what this is about, right? With all these red pigments in your hair we might need two or three further rounds to turn you into Jean Harlow and - I mean, you had several head-surgeries, we probably shouldn’t have used _any_ hairdye in the first place. Not to mention it would take hours… We better finish here, pick up Frannie and get going. So we get to the beach asap.”

He throws another glance at the mirror. Shit, he and Brody have too much in common… Sniper, believed to be dead, facing public hysteria, Achilles heel Carrie. And now the hair color. The irony is not lost on him. 

“Didn’t I know you are into gingers” he snarls and gets a shove for it.

She throws the rubber gloves away, puts her hand on her hip and looks at him expectantly: “So off we go, Quinn!”

He’s not ready though. Brows furrowed, he goes through a little plastic bag from Walgreens. “Where are the contact lenses - ?“

“Ehm… Forget the lenses. Blue looks great with strawberry blonde… and better not fuss with your eyes, Quinn, you already have to deal with blurs and auras…”

He completely ignores her plea and carries on with his frantic search: “Where the fuck are they?”

“I didn’t get any.”

She likes his eyes, the depth behind the blue. She figured if she is to help him, she deserves a little treat, so: no colored contact lenses.

There’s a whole week-end before them. They really should talk about that letter.

 

 

**2\. Two at the beach**

It’s a beautiful summer evening at Virgina Beach, at least three hours before sunset.

Carrie smiles to herself and covertly takes a picture before she’s off to get the keys to the beach hut. The two gingers are to stay back at the beach, ploughing through the sand. Franny and Quinn, each furnished with a plastic shovel and sand moles, have decided to build the most impressive castle since Neuschwanstein.

Quinn, in shorts and T-shirt, limps to the water's edge and refills a little red bucket for the umpteenth time. It is important the sand has the perfect consistency - not too wet, not too dry, Frannie has admonished him in a _very_ serious voice. She scrutinizes their work so far with a proud eye. Time to collect some shells for decoration purposes. She walks a few steps, eyes fixed on the ground -

until all of a sudden she screams in horror.

In a flash Quinn drops the bucket, spins around, jogs over (with a limp) and snatches her away from a huge dog, the source of her horror. The dog gives them a doleful look.

“Quinnie, Quinnie”, Frannie screams in a high pitch, “it’s a monster, it will eat us.”

“Shhh, your majesty, you are perfectly safe.”

She whimpers on his arm: “What if it’s hungry?”

 “Aw, it won’t eat us. We are far too big.”

He pats the beast’s head. A Great Dane, grey snout, no aggressive behavior, thank God.

“It’s a dog, a friendly dog, look at its tail, that’s the way it says “hi” to us… -“   

With one hand he covers his eyes against the sun and scans the surroundings for the owners. Nearby a young couple is making out on a beach towel, oblivious to the rest of the world, let alone any frightened kids.

He walks up to them, trying to take deep and steady breaths. Quivering Frannie clinging to his arm is a strain but no way he would admit it.

“Excuse me”, he goes from a distance, voice raised while walking on, “is this your dog?”

Reluctantly the girl entangles and looks up.

“Yeah, why?”

“Look, I know this is a friendly dog but it is huge and it is peak season, the dog shouldn’t be running around. People get frightened…”

It’s his stress test. He passes. No awkward questions (“do I know you?...”), no selfie requests. Just some hurried apologizes. The guy rummages through a cool bag and takes out a candy bar. Frannie, miraculously allayed, leaves Quinn’s arm to get her treat.

“What about your dad”, the guy goes, “would he also like a candy?”

Frannie is stunned.

“No, no thanks,” Peter hastily replies.

“Maybe a beer?”

“No thank you, I am fine.” He smiles and offers Frannie a hand. She takes it. The two of them walk back in silence. At their construction site Quinn lets go of her hand to get the bucket back when she asks:

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“My dad?”

“No. No I ain’t. But you know that, don’t you?”

She nods and shrugs at the same time.

“Mummy says he’s dead. Were you daddy’s friend?”

_Don’t lie, don’t hesitate, or you’ll make it worse._

“No princess.”

“But you are mummy’s friend?”

“Yeah, and also your friend I hope.”

She gives him a dead serious look which is all Carrie, then wordlessly turns back to her shell collection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody keeping up with recent LJ discussions knows this fiction shamelessly exploits some thoughts brought up there. Thanks to Leblanc1 for listing the similarities b/w Q and Brody ;-)
> 
> Oh and special mention for Cheesecake97 the creator of "Quinnie" (I think - please correct me if I am mistaken)


	3. Friday Night part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Peter Quinn takes his time out, others get busy. And Dar Adal has a dinner date.

**Interface**

While Peter Quinn takes his time out, others get crazily busy. Keyboards, the new equivalent to the wheel of fortune, clatter all over the country.

Freelancers and staff-members cancel their dates and boot their computers.

 “Reliable sources” get pestered by quirky callers.

Experts rush into studios and explain live and in color about sarin-gas and daesh and the darknet.

Two nameless junior agents feed a machine with data-disks to erase Peter’s past.

Newsrooms brainstorm on a “special”, new and fresh approach to the topic none of the zillion competitors might have thought of before. 

Mark Tryson, high on caffeine and self-importance, collects data, embeds statistics and fills page after page of a lengthy dossier.

A soldier has to go where the winds might blow him.

And Dar Adal has a dinner-date.

 

**The dinner-date**

It starts bad. With oysters and French champagne.

What a clichéd display of ritzy power and savoir-vivre. Dar Adal hates eating living things.

He takes one oyster, not giving away his disgust, splashes a tad bit of lemon juice on it. A sudden shiver running over the slimy thing which proves it is fresh. Alive. As was to be expected in one of the most exclusive restaurants on the East Coast.

He puts the shell to his mouth and slurpes it down, pretending it is just raw egg-white. Nonetheless: Disgusting.

Now he is ready to face the enemy he has to turn.

“So, old chap, why are we here on this lovely Friday night?”

His host, owner of several networks, a big shot in communications, raises his glass.

“First let’s toast to those returning from the dead!”

Adal’s brows raise in disapproval. He doesn’t touch his glass. This man is not as powerful as he used to be. The shareholders made sure of that. And the new media.

“You won’t find anything.”

“So he is one of yours?”

“Now that is no news, my friend. We claimed him to be one of ours right after the attack, if - when - you remember.”

“What I meant, Adal, is: one of _yours?”_

Two men, once on top of their worlds, still capable of doing major damage.

“You better not find anything on him.”

It is a confirmation. They both know.

“Is that why you don’t provide him? Because we might dig something up?”

“No. He is simply not up to it. He is still in poor condition, mentally, physically… a wreck.”

A smirk. “Is he indeed?”

Adal shows his ennuie by finishing off his second oyster.

“We have done human interest in that field before. It suited you well. Distracted people from other issues.”

It always does, doesn’t it.

“Ted. I told you he is in no condition.”

Again that smirk. Mr Newspower*s hand digs into his pocket and provides a photo.

“It’s all a matter of perspective, right? You tell me he is in no condition. I see him taking the week-end off with his girl-friend… ”

The picture gets shoved over the table.

A CC-TV-shot from Walter Reed’s entrance. Date and time on it: Today, 4:19 pm. Peter Quinn, a sportsbag in hand, a dark Beanie covering his head, about to leave the hospital. His arm around a girl. Carrie Mathison. Jesus. How did that happen? As soon as he is out of here, he'll take care of this - _desaster_.  
He should have let Peter stay with that Julia-girl. The guy needs a girl, obviously, a woman on top. He should have known, considering his background… Julia, she was a good girl, down-to-earth, stable, reliable. Big mistake, Adal, big mistake. Affords cleaning off after over and over again.

Adals face doesn’t betray any emotion.

“Ah, you bribed someone at Walter Reed’s. So?”

“Girl-friend? Fiancé? Wife?”

“A colleague.”

Mr Newspower points to Peter’s hand over Carrie’s shoulder.

“A colleague?”

“He can’t walk long without a support.”

“Come on, Adal, don’t insult me!”

Adal leans in to make sure he can use his lowest voice ever. “If you are involved in revealing the identity of a present or former agent, it’s the CIA-basement, as you well know… on all legal grounds. ”

He scored. Mr Newspower takes a breath.

Adal raises his glass. Now is the time for a toast.

“To our brave soldiers all over the world.”

Mr Newspower hesitates.

“Don’t think you have it in the bag, Adal. Print and broadcast you might get on the leash, but we both know there are other players now. It’s no longer a country for old men.”

Now _he_ raises his glass:  “To social media and the internet.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, folks, Adal HAS feelings. He hates oysters for example... and he loves the opera, as mentioned before...


	4. Friday Night part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn still taking a downtime with Carrie and Frannie, Adal still rotating...

**Two on the beach ctd**

_Three hours earlier, on Virginia beach._

 “Are you cold?” the little girl asks and gives Peter Quinn another one of her serious glances.

“No - are you?” He checks her arms for goose pimples.

 “You wear a T-shirt.”

It’s true. This is a beach and everybody wears bathing suits and swimming trunks. Peter Quinn however is in shorts and T-shirt.

“I have a lot of scabs and scars. From when I was sick. I don’t like people staring.”

Franny nods. “Me neither. Mummy says there’s good and bad staring but I hate both.”

“Good and bad staring? What would the good staring be?”

“Like if the grown-ups go ´Oh doesn’t she have lovely curls, oh look at the little ginger`.“ She mocks an auntie’s voice, very tongue-in-cheek. “Mummy says it’s a nice thing to say but it’s sooooo annoying.”

“I get that.”

“Cos you’re a ginger too.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. He smiles and keeps quiet.

She goes on fortifying their castle. “If I meet a good fairy and she’ll grant me a wish I want a cloak of invisibility. Then I can go everywhere and nobody sees me and goes "Oh look at the little ginger"....”

“That’s a brilliant wish. If you meet this fairy, will you tell her I want one too?”

“OK.”

After she pressed a shell into the highest tower of their castle, she goes on: “You know, we could swap. If she doesn’t have a second one.”

“Gosh, that is a very generous offer Frannie, thank you so much.”

She doesn’t look up. She is far too busy decorating that tower. A few minutes later she asks out of the blue: “Are you our new Jonas?”

He needs a moment to come up with an answer. “No, Frannie, I knew your Mum way before Jonas.”

She takes it in. “Then Jonas was our new Quinnie?”

Jesus, this girl is grilling him! 

 

**Rituals**

Carrie smiles at her daughter, finally settled in bed, eyes closed, breath even, and intents to tiptoe out of the room.

“Mummy”, a familiar voice goes, “if Quinnie is to live with us we can’t have Jonas around cos we don’t have enough room for both.”

Carrie gives up on a fast escape. She straddles Frannie’s hair. “Frannie, we won’t have Jonas around either way. I told you. Quinn has nothing to do with it. Quinn is a very dear friend and I would be really sad if you don’t want him around.”

“Oh I don’t mind him around. I just wanted to know. Auntie Maggie says she doesn’t know if he is our new Jonas. And Helen says Quinnie is _awesome_. And she says he’s famous, like a singer or a boxer.”

 _Awesome_? A boxer? Her niece is into boxers?!

“No, he is no singer and no boxer. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, ok?”

“If he lives with us, can we still go out to restaurants?”

“Sure honey.”

“But he made us run out tonight.”

“Yes, honey, he did. He was - not well. I told you he was very sick and-“

“Oh so that is why? Not because he didn’t want to see himself on telly? They had him on telly when we were there, did you see it,  he looked funny and his hair was so weird…”

Carrie looks at her daughter incredulously. Frannie saw that picture? And she recognized him, never mind the hair-color?

“Aren’t you a smart little thing”, she says and smacks her a kiss. “All the questions you keep asking so you don’t have to sleep…”

***

Carrie finds Quinn sitting on the porch, admiring the sunset.

“Frannie finally asleep?”

“Who knows… What would you like to drink -…?”

He hesitates. It’s not ok with his meds but… “I take what you are taking.”

She smiles, gets herself a glass of wine and without further ado hands him a bottle of beer. Non-alcoholic beer.

He grins. “Thanks. Why did you ask in the first place?”

“I wanted to give the impression you have a say in this. Self-empowerment, you know.” 

“Thanks again” he goes.

“You’re welcome… Did she pester you?”

“Naw, she is great… very Carrie…”

“So she did pester you…”

They both laugh.

“Jesus, Quinn, you’re quite a sight when you laugh. How come I never noticed before...”

“How come you all start flattering me… Just because I am the guy who died? Even Adal does it. It’s - unquieting.”

“Adal flattering you? That’s not unquieting, that’s - eerie.”

Another half-smile. “Sorry I shooed you out of the burger-place. I just didn’t want to…”

“I figured. Don’t worry, it spared us Frannie falling asleep on the restaurant table… And it _was_ quite a shock, that picture on the news again…”

“Fuck, I really would have preferred to stay dead.”

“Quinn, that sounds terrible!”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. Still… What about your kid? It’s good he knows his dad’s alive, right?”

Quinn doesn’t look up. “He doesn’t know…”

“What?!”

He doesn’t meet her eyes. “His mother told him I am dead way before…”

“That’s - harsh.”

“She wanted to do the right thing. She couldn’t put up with the constant worry.”

He scrutinizes his beer-bottle as if it contained any secret message.

“That’s what frightens me most. How some idiot might dig them up and go up to him and - tell him stuff and show him - .”

She sees him swallow hard. She moves closer and puts her hand on his arm. It’s a shy, a careful gesture.

“I know”, she says. “Sometimes I look at Frannie and panic. What will I tell her if she asks about her dad. What will I fucking tell her?”

“Yeah, that’s a tough one.”

They fall silent. She removes her hand. They sit so close, the most adorable sunset on display, but worlds apart, each wrapped up in his or her own thoughts. 

“Quinn”, she starts after some minutes, “maybe it is not the right time, but I really want to know-”

“Carrie, can we just sit here and say nothing?”

 

**Dwarfing**

Dar Adal can almost feel the oysters poisoning his system. They heat him up. They fuel his anger. They stint his revulsion. Gabriel is the first one to pay for it. He let Quinn out. Contrary to explicit orders.

It takes Dar Adal 2 1/2 minutes to cut 6ft 2 Carribbean smile down to size. Half-size. The guy faces a bleak future, and he knows it. He starts pleading. “He promised to be back on Sunday night, Sir. He will keep his word, he sure will.”

“He better be. If anything - happens, you will be held responsible.” Glancing at the guy, a golden cross visibly dangling around the neck, Adal adds: “Feel free to pray.”

And while he is at it, he might as well settle another unfinished business.

 

Nearly midnight on a Friday night or not, he sets up a conference via satellite. The hospital’s chief of staff, wearing a tuxedo. The chief surgeon, all casual and trying to appear sober which gives away how intoxicated he is. The head of development at the CIA’s technical research unit, surprisingly sleepy eyes, in his pjs.

“We will furnish Peter Quinn with the RIFD implant.”

“The tracking device?” The head of development all of a sudden is wide awake.

“Exactly. I suggest first thing on Monday morning.”

“This is very short term”, the chief surgeon objects. “As we have no experience so far we have to make sure we have all information required, run a few tests... Our anesthetists will have to give it a few thoughts as well. Last but not least the patient needs a thorough briefing about potential risks…”

Doctors!

“The patient won’t get informed. It’s a matter of national security.”

“Sir, you suggest a - covert surgery?”

“I suggest you don’t reveal the real nature of the intervention.”

Bleak silence.

“I correct:” -  a heave of relieve - “I order it.”

“But, Sir”, the developer goes, why on earth does _he_ interject, it was his idea to begin with!, “it is a prototype so he should be made aware of possible - …”

“Gentlemen, this is not a discussion but a briefing. You will act accordingly and leave the ethical concerns to me. To salve your conscience: Imagine Peter Quinn had had the device back in Berlin - he wouldn’t be in this - pitiable state…”

The surgeon bites his lips. The head of development nods slowly.

“Jenkins, you heard the director”, the chief of staff concludes.

 

Dar Adal would call it a night and go to sleep, feeling mostly confident things will work out, if it weren’t for Mark Tryson’s dossier, 1st draft, sent around midnight. A heap of trash. A waste of time and money. The index proves this moron takes his guy for a pop star, blablaing on and on about  cross-media, synergetic effects and sales strategies, about target audience, average ratings, number of clicks…  Not a word on the real McCoy. Good thing he went for the old school approach as well which is due tomorrow: A study on the possible risks by this unexpected media exposure. Including abduction, blackmail, attracting further terrorist activities. Torture to attain information.  
Running away like a 12-year-old won't solve a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, so many Adal-fans around I felt obliged to make sure we all remember the less pleasant Adal...


	5. Missed and missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The talk. Letter and all.

**The missing link**

He wanted to sit and say nothing.

So they sit outside, all silent. He reads a book, a travel reading light clipped on. She‘s busy on her ipad. Shoots him a glance. Hell, here they are, on their own at last, and he wants her to shut up?-

“Quinn?”

“Mhm?”

“Move in with us. Seriously. N.Y.C. is crowded with celebrities and all kind of weirdos, so nobody will pay attention. First thing Monday morning I’ll set up a date with Dar and talk him into it.”

 “Good luck with that”, he goes, eyes on the book.

“So you will move in with us?”

He looks at her, all inwardly sigh. “You sure you want it?”

“Naw I am just polite… Yes or no?”

“Yes. Yes, it’s just… Yes. For the time being. Until I’ve sorted things out. Thank you. For bothering.”

“You do the dishes.”

“Sure” he says with a dirty smile, stretching out two theatrically shaking hands.

“Ok - you do the martinis….”

“Deal.” His eyes turn back to the page.

“Quinn - the future president offered me a job. Chief of security. Sounded interesting.”

“You are not joining that moron are you?”

She mock-slaps his elbow. He doesn’t stop her hand in time (as Old Quinn sure would have done). “Not him - God forbid he’ll ever be our president. Her!”

Quinn smiles and puts away the book. “Sounds good. You deserve it. Congrats. So you’re leaving darling Otto?”

“I guess… and I want you to join the team.”

He gives her an incredulous stare.

“Come on. We have always been an excellent team, remember?”

“Nostalgia taints your memories… I remember a lot of cursing and fighting … And I am a fucking cripple.”

This time he gets an elbow-check.

“Ouch.”

“Take it like a man! - We’ll talk about it some other time, ok.”

“Which means you intend to go on and on until I give in…”

They both grin.

“I am so sick of being sick” he says out of the blue. “I hate going back to hospital.”

“I assume.” She takes his book, checks the cover - ´Into the wilderness`.  “Uplifting lecture you got… Please don’t disappear into the wilderness of Alaska and get yourself killed.”

“That’s what he does?”

“That’s what he does.”

“Great. You just spoilered my book.”

“Keep on reading. You will love it. All forlorn …”

“Thank you.”

“No, really, it is brilliant. Very sad but-“

He gives her a warning look. She smiles. He takes the book and goes on reading.

 “Quinn…. I really really want to… talk.”  
He puts down the book and looks all alarmed. “Talk? _Again_?”  
So. Here she goes. She has to keep her tone light. Don’t mess it up - no arguing, no shouting. Get to the point.  
“When I saw you dying onscreen I was devastated. I-”  
“Will you stop, please?  Everybody goes on and on about it, please don’t.”

“No listen…”

“I am no good at this kind of stuff. Spare me.”

“Adal gave me the letter.”

No reaction.

“Your letter. The famous-last-words-letter.”

He closes his eyes. “I take it you didn’t read it. As I am not dead. You can burn it or give it back or… it’s outdated anyway, I am not on missions anymore.”

“Will you please look at me, Quinn?”

He does. In slow motion.

“Adal thought you were a goner. So did I. I read it.”

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t look at her. Just chews his lip.  
She waits. And waits. And waits. Until-

“Jesus, Quinn, how can you write this letter and - run?”

“It’s the other way round. I wrote because I left. And I didn’t run.”

“You fucked off to Syria to get yourself killed!”

“I am alive, am I?”

Hardly.

“Quinn…” Her voice has a cutting edge to it. The kind of cutting he can’t handle right now. He tries a different approach.

“I’m sorry. I really am. I was… not ok. I was - obsessing. You never should have read it. It never should have been written.”

“Maybe. But I did read. And you did write.”

“Can we - just forget it- “

“Fuck you Quinn! You write the darkest love letter in all of history and expect me to ignore it? Jesus, do you believe that darkness-crap? Like you are under some curse? The only curse I see is you stubbornness and you’re being in thrall to Adal-“

“Funny”, he goes, sarcasm his last refuge, “Adal said the exact thing about you…”  
It cools her down. Old Quinn, all sarcastic, she can handle.

“Do you have any idea - the impact this letter had?”

“Carrie-“

“Just shut up and let me speak, ok? I mean, you never made a pass… you never mentioned - anything… not even when you suggested getting out together. Not a word! Remember?”

He scrutinizes his hands. “I remember you left me high and dry.”

“What? That’s not true. I had a lot on my plate. I said I needed time…”

“Yeah right. You went on about how you’re not up to us and went off to Missouri and said don’t bother coming and said ´we obviously have to talk` in this upset how-do-I-get-rid-of-him-in-a-decent-way-voice… You were all cross and evasive and-”

“and you pissed off without a word and never gave me a chance to sort this out! 2 ½ years you’re gone, vanished, next time I see you you go ´doesn’t matter now`…”

“…and it didn’t. You were, let me quote, ´seriously committed`. And I shouldn't be with anybody anyway.”

She rolls her eyes because he drives her fucking crazy. “Jesus Quinn, that is so - sick and it makes me so - sad and fucking angry because - we could have - …”

“No we-“

“Shut up and don’t no me, I am not done yet. Do you realize what you wrote? At all? All poetic and bleeding heart and - you fucking intended to be dead by the time I read it so I would have to take it in, drown in regrets with no chance to amend… atone… Fuck you, Quinn - that was the most selfish thing ever-“ She can’t finish the sentence.

He has gone all pale. Needs a few moments to find his voice.  
“I am sorry. I am really, truly, deeply sorry. I had this crazy idea you might - deliver me. I was… in too deep…. Still am I guess. Once a junkie, always a junkie. I fucking wanted you so much… to be my methadone. And when I realized you weren’t…  it was - a matter of - self-preservation -.”

“You’re an idiot”, she says and rubs her eyes. Tries to give him a meager smile.

 “I know”, he says, clearly on the verge of tears himself..

What else to do but embrace this disturbingly damaged guy.  
What else to do but embrace this disturbingly illogical woman.

“Quinn”, she starts, voice all muffled against his chest, “I am fucking glad you’re alive.” She raises her head and gets on her toes, stretching her neck, intent on kissing him-

“Mommymommy”, a familiar voice cries and makes her jump, “there are monsters under my bed…”

So it is an apologizing glance and a tender kiss on his cheek and she breezes off to comfort her frightened child.

“I’ll be back”, she goes. “Don’t fall asleep, I’ll be back.”

By the time she comes back, he’s right where she left him. Fast asleep. His fucking meds. She drags him into bed. His bed, that is. Sweating and heaving and silently cursing.

 

 

**Small sins**

“Absolutely no swimming, Peter! Carrie - make sure he stays dry, ok? The infection risk is -”  
Yeah, he knows.

Peter Quinn wakes up at sunrise and feels hungover. Now didn’t he have a most - disconcerting dream… Reflects on it, realizes: He didn’t drink, and it was no dream. Which renders him wide awake and dying for - some action. Just to see he is - capable. In control. Healthy - no, not healthy but: Not victimized either.  
He gets up in a hurry, grabs a towel and stealthily leaves. He is lucky: The tide is in. Screw the doctors. He limps to the shoreline, dives headlong into the ocean. Tries to get lost in the water. Comes up to the surface. Plunges in again. Feels alight and at ease, the steady sound of the waves reverberating in his ears. It feels like fucking flipper.

On the way back he starts shivering. He craves a hot shower but can’t risk stirring up the girls. Climbs back into bed instead, hair still wet, and falls asleep on the spot.

***

He needs a moment to come to. Checks the alarm-clock. Nearly noon. Flat empty. Finally recognizes what woke him up. A buzzing. The burner phone he got for the weekend. Only one person knows the number …

“Gabriel?”

“Hey man… guess who knows you’re AWOL…

“Fuck…”

“Mind your French, but: Yes… He was mighty pissed off. Make sure you come in tomorrow or he’ll drag me to Guantanamo.”

“Fuck! I swear he never was around on week-ends before… I’ll get my stuff and leave right now.”

“No, no need to.”

“You’re sure`?”

“Yeah. He was in yesterday night so too late to cover it up anyway.”

“Fuck! Why didn’t you call right away?”

“Peter - it’s no use trying to wake you up with your meds…. You do take your meds, right?”

“Sure.”

“I mean I know it’s harsh getting knocked out at dusk and that chick around but don’t get sloppy…. You can have fun during the day, right.”

“Gabriel, it’s always a pleasure talking to a worldly wise guy but you’re aware you’re serving me to Adal on a silver platter right now?”

 “Now you’re insulting me. Why would I use my own phone? No need to withhold the juicy details, man…”

“No way. Your ma would bite my head off.”  
Gabriel laughs.

 

He just hung up when the phone rings again. Adal, most likely.

“What do you want?” he asks all annoyed.

“Is this Peter Quinn speaking? The Peter Quinn? The I-survived-the-motherfuckers-Quinn?”

“And who are you?”

“Your next president. Listen, son, we’ll beat them up. Together. I want you on my team, show them fuckers what happens if you bomb Berlin.”

“Ah I missed out on that. What a pity. Would have loved to bomb Berlin into a parking lot myself.”

With that, he hangs up. Shit, what was that! He must get rid of that burner phone. Time to take a stroll to the beach and join his girls.  
Did he just think of them as “his girls”?

 

He’s hardly left the hut, the burner-phone gone into some public dustbin, when he realizes somethings not quite right. Small flashes of light blur his vision. Followed by a buzzing noise in his ears. His chest tightens up, he gasps for air, can’t breathe, his hands cramp, more flashes of light and geometric patterns invading his sight. It happens so fast he has no time to react. No time to look around, call for help, sit down. He wonders and silently collapses, a puppet with its string cut.

In his foggy brain he thinks he hears a kid’s voice: “Daddy, look that guy over there”, and a man’s reply: “Some drunkard. Get moving.”

A last thought flashes through his brain: “How fucked is that to kick the bucket now.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers, there is a less G-rated version of "The missing link" hidden on my computer (writer's cut, so to speak). In case some voice the desire to read it... it could be posted as an alternative chapter
> 
> Oh and read "Into the Wild" by Jon Krakauer only if you are in good spirits. But read it.


	6. Putting up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the crisis - into the sunset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I take it nobody seriously thought I would kill off Quinn...

**Freedom waffles**

Dar Adal and Carrie Mathison talking over coffee and waffles. What a sight.

He was the last person she wanted to run into today.  
On the other hand: After the bystanders, the obstructors, the paramedic, the helicopter crew, the ER staff… Adal doesn’t make much of a difference to her day of horror.  
It won’t get too bad, this is a public place, they both will have to rein themselves in.

“Was it worth it?” he sneers. It’s not really a question, so she doesn’t reply. “Good work - how on earth did you get him to look so - _Brody_?” She gets up to pick up some napkins, teeth grinding, fists clenched.

On coming back, she states: “Why did you want to talk in the first place if you are not up to a civilized conversation?”  
The slightest of nods: Objection granted. Adal folds his hands. A priest starting his sermon.  
“I won’t hold it against you, Carrie. I assume you acted in good faith. You should be aware by now he can’t be fully trusted. Don’t forget he _also_ knows all tricks of the trades - deceiving, concealing, manipulating… He obviously lacks the insight what’s best for himself so other people have to take over from here on. He -“

“Let me take over.”

His eyes are slits, his voice sounds amused: “Well well, someone’s discovering her inner Florence Nightingale?”

“He can’t put up with being hospitalized. Victimized. Moving in with us will provide a - framework. He’ll be less likely - lightheaded and - self-hurting.”

“Right my dear, the ER unit will gladly confirm how the framework you provide has worked miracles last weekend.”

“I might have underestimated… but I am aware now… I can do it. I need thorough medical instructions of course.”

Adal’s answer is to hand her a tablet and a pair of ear-plugs.

It’s a clip. She knows the scene, she knows the agents. A very aggressive blonde woman, all shivering chin, huge eyes, totally losing it, pushing and shouting at a bearded guy, grabbing his smartphone and smashing it to smithereens…

“Are you off your meds?” Adal asks hyperfriendly.

“God- Quinn was nearly - and this fucker - filmed. He didn’t fucking help, he didn’t give a shit, he filmed him cramping and foaming and- mind you, not a crazy terrorist, just a normal asshole -... I didn’t realize… there was another asshole filming me…”

”There always is”, he goes and sips some coffee. After a few moments of silence he adds: “This has been my regular place for over 30 years, Carrie. Do you know why?”

“I guess you will tell me.”

“Because nobody knew my face. It is a prerequisite in our business. Peter is burnt. Everybody around him will get burnt too. You know he’s public property. Reconsider if you want him to move in with you. Think of your daughter.”

The manipulative bastard. She would love to get up and leave, but like it or not, she needs Adal’s approval.

“We’ll manage”, she goes.

 “He’s a liability.”

“I know but-“

“I am not referring to your personal issues. He’s a liability to the agency. You should do your utmost to make him realize he has to stay in line or-“

“Or?”

“He’ll rot in a vet’s rehab home in deepest nowhere land.” He gives her his famous piercing stare, and all of a sudden she knows he’s bluffing. She knows he cares. She saw him, back at Ramstein.

“I will”, she concedes, “if you provide a schedule when he’s ready to leave... for good.”

 

**Déjà-vu**

Lights. Noise. A prickling sensation in his right hand - IV. A burning feeling down the throat - tubes. Fuck.

_Open your eyes._

Someone sitting there, eyes on him.

_Focus._

A woman. Taking his hand.

_Focus._

A stranger, no, not quite-

bare arms. A tattoo.

He wants to jump out of bed and yell and-

he can’t move. He can’t speak. Hears a croaking sound - so that’s what’s left of his voice.

She pats his hand, careful not to touch the IV.

“Well, Peter, I told you I’d be around if you need me.”

A nurse comes in.  
He tries to raise his head. She seems to notice, comes over, gives him a smile.

“Ah, you’re awake, that’s good. Let me finish my patrol, then get the doctor so we can free you of these” - she points at the tubes.

“Throw her out, throw that woman out, she’s a fucking journalist”, he shouts but all they hear is this croaking sound.

 _That woman_ smiles at him. “Madison Johnson”, she says, “your new press agent.”

Peter Quinn shuts his eyes.  
They overdosed him. They sure did. He had them before, hallucinations…  so - persuasive…. The one with the nurse intent on killing him, she tried to forcefeed him some drugs, recalling it gives him a bitter taste,  a feel of wretching, panic rising… then the conspiracy plot, all blue-eyed members of staff subject to iris transplants and hostile agents… _fuckfuckfuck._  
It’s what Carrie might feel like, off her meds. A fucking nightmare.  
Shit, where’s Carrie?  
Pictures invading his mind… Stills of a hut by the sea… Frannie on the beach… stills of Carrie, hurt in her eyes… Carrie, her head against his ribcage. Was it real or was it imagined?  
_Am I going mad?_

Someone strokes his hair. “Shhhhh”, Madison says, “believe it or not, I am you’re best friend right now.”

 

**Among women**

“You’re Peter’s girl?”  
The parking garage at Walter Reed’s. A woman, fortyish, smiling at Carrie.

No need to ask how she recognized her. This clip seems to be everywhere.

“Madison Johnson”, the woman says, hands proffered, “good to meet you at last.” She wears a sleeveless shirt, the tattoo on her upper arm reads “in hoc signo vinces”. So Peter’s new press agent is a walking Pall Mall ad….

“We have to agree on some official wording. Should we refer to you as his girl-friend? Fiancé? Partner?”

Carrie sighs. She can’t believe Adal came up with this. “Make it confidante.”

Madison raises her eyebrows. “We’ll use ´partner` then. About that famous clip of yours-“

“I know it’s a disaster, but - the situation was _unbearable_ , I lost control but you would too if-“

“Exactly. I would too. Many others would. It’s great. Gripping. _So_ human interest - it shows your concern. A concern we all root for. We all love to see a girl fighting for her guy. And we all are disgusted by obstructing bystanders. So, yes, it was great…. I had to photoshop his hair though, ginger doesn’t work at all…“

Carrie’s jaw drops. “So _you_ uploaded that clip? You were there and filmed?”

“Of course not… I bought the material, all exclusive. Only added a finishing touch before it went off into the world.”

“Fuck! Are you here to help us keep the press in check or are you fueling that shit?”

Madison smiles. “I am on your side. After all I am on your payroll now. I know how to handle this kind of bullshit. Trust me. We’ll come up with the right sort of evidence to keep them at bay. The kind of stuff we want them to digest.”

“Are you aware what you are doing to people! My sister crucified me for that clip… how it would harm my daughter and wreck my life and...”

“I am a pro. Trust me.” Madison has a surprisingly warm, inviting smile.

They’ve arrived at the main entrance. Carrie takes a look around. No journalist in sight.

“Wow, you obviously _do_ a great job. That was fast! No more parasites hanging around….”

“Don’t ever call them parasites, they might tape-record you. And don’t credit me for it, that’s pure luck - the High School shooting downtown. Everybody rushing over to cover the tragedy and interview the survivors and the bereft families and stuff. ”

Carrie looks at her in horror: “A High School shooting?”

“Yes, heavy stuff… two kids with semi-automatic rifles. 7 dead.”

That’s what she calls pure luck?

 

 

 

**Backlash**

Six weeks later. Elizabeth Keane’s office.  
Carrie Mathison, queen of over-hours, is negligent today.

She checks her private messages every other minute to make sure there’s no imminent change of plan. She checks her watch and scribbles list. Private lists. Things she already organized like a bed and a second desk. Things they need in the long run like another closet.  
She shuts down her computer and gets ready to leave, when the telephone-control flashes. Elizabeth Keane in person. She better take it.

“Can I talk to you for a moment, Carrie?”  

“Sure. I have to leave dead on time though. Gotta pick up Quinn. But if it is urgent...”

“Ah right, today’s the great day… I am afraid it _is_ urgent.”

***

Elizabeth’s office.  
Panorama windows. Huge desk. No grain of dust.  
Photographs of the right people shaking hands and smiling at the camera.

“You’re aware he’s a neocon?”

“Who is?”

“Your - Peter Quinn. He’s with - the enemy. I am sorry to raid you like this - but-”

“Uh, that’s - what is this really about?”

“Listen to this…”

It’s an audio clip, obviously a tapped phone conversation. Carrie recognizes the voices.

_“Listen, son, we’ll beat them up. Together. I want you on my team, show them fuckers what happens if you bomb Berlin.”_

_“Ah I missed out on that. What a pity. Would have loved to bomb Berlin into a parking lot myself.”_

Carrie looks at her employer, confused and relieved at the same time.

“Elizabeth - that was irony. I admit he has a cynic streak. He doesn’t even like the man.“

 “Are you sure he’s not on the other team?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I know he’s been through a lot but - are you sure he’s not using you?”

 “Elizabeth, this is ridiculous… - may I ask where you got this?”

“No sender I am afraid, but I have to take this seriously. Polls say, we have a comfortable advance so he’s ready to fight dirty. Real dirty. We must not be sloppy.”

Carrie is all antsy now. She should have hit the road ten minutes ago. Instead she’s stuck with her boss playing kindergarten.

“Elizabeth, I am your head of security. Do you imply I invited a fifth column into my home? I’ve known Quinn for years… I trust him with my life. Did many times, literally. I can assure you he is _very_ reliable…”

Elizabeth Keane is clearly not convinced. Carrie folds her arms, getting more annoyed by the minute.

“Well, Elizabeth - if you don’t trust your chief of security we have a problem.”

“That’s why I called you in.”

“I told you I checked him out, you doubt it. Which means you don’t trust my professional skills. Which leaves me with only one choice-“

She’s angry enough to walk out on Elizabeth now and forever.

“No need to act so rash, Carrie… Just make sure he has no access to your computer and postpone your home office days until we have sorted this out. - By the way, was it his idea you suggest him to join our team?”

“No - he didn’t even want the job”, Carrie snaps, “that’s why I didn’t catch up. Anything else? I really have to get going.”

“Drive safe. Let’s talk about it sometime next week over dinner. Maybe he would like to join us later?”

 

**Resolution**

Frannie is fast asleep in the backseat. Quinn, beanie on his head, looks out of the window, into the pouring rain, lost in thoughts. Carrie wants so much to say the right thing she can’t say anything at all.

Out of the blue she feels his hand on her knee.

“This is fucking awesome. Still can’t believe it.”

She smiles. “So you’re done with that relapsing shit, are you?”

He shrugs.  

“What’s that scar on your hand?”

“No idea. They did some surgery right after the relapse… All that medical stuff - I lost track.-“

He pulls his hand away, lets it rest on his left thigh. “Guess what: I programmed my cell-phone. Gives us reminders to take our meds. Different tunes for different pills. We’ll be all good.”

“Ah what a brainy guy.”

“Yep. The hospital made me all nerdy. Nothing else to do but read sad novels and program silly stuff.”  
“Comes in handy.”

Silence.

“You know what? Today’s the day I had the first fight with my new boss.”

“That was quick. About?”

“About you. She thinks you’re a spy.”

He stares at her, totally stunned, then they both burst out laughing.

“Jesus she’s a bright candle!”

“Spying for her opponent.- You never mentioned you talked to him…”

He furrows his brow. “I didn’t. Why would I?”

“No idea. But she had an audioclip. Sounded like a tapped call.”

He shakes his head, all of a sudden has an epiphany - “oh THAT. Took it for a hoax. Jesus she’s paranoid - you’ll get along just fine…”

“Thank you Quinn, always a charmer.”

“You’re welcome… The world gone crazy… Can you believe it - Adal hiring _that woman_ … I mean, she throws me under the bus and now we pay her?”

Carrie knows he is deluded here, the agency and Bibi’s gang did, Madison just added her famous finishing touch… But there’ll be other times to talk about it. Lots of it. In the future. Their future. Living together. Jesus, they will talk. They will get to know each other. Share their secrets. Quinn’s right - it feels fucking awesome.

For now she concedes: “She is - something else. But she likes you, she really does.”

“Ice cold comfort. Don’t trust her...”

“Ah, we get along.”

“I figured… Powergirls united- ”

“Does that make you feel uneasy? The infamous castration fear?”

“Let's put it this way: I sure wouldn’t survive a foursome with Elizabeth, Madison and Carrie…”

Carrie grins. “We'll see about that...." Then whispers: "I hate her too, she instructed me to always behave like we were on camera, just to make sure…”

“Nice to meet you”, he replies, also whispering, “the name’s Truman…”

“and”, she adds in her normal voice, “the crime I will never forgive:  she made you shave your head… you look awful... Like one of those Aryan nation half-wits. Don’t you dare take off that beanie.”

“Surprise, Carrie: Hair grows back. In no time I’ll be my old hippie self.”

“I am counting on it…”

Pause.

“Quinn… Madison or no Madison, we really should watch our language. No more swearing around Frannie, alright?”

“Sure. No fucking problem.”

She smiles and puts her hand on his, at rest on his thigh.

Who would have thought -  she finally takes him home.

 

\- The End -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading - comments and further suggestions very much appreciated
> 
> sorry Kitty7 about fulfilling your hair-nightmare ;-)

**Author's Note:**

> Liked the fic? Wanna discuss it or find out more about the author? -> http://homelandstuff.livejournal.com/11871.html#comments


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